At the harbourside there were trestles with fresh fish laid out on their boards, and soon he was walking past tables filled with foods he didn’t recognise: spices, nuts and berries, then cloths of a richness and colour he had never imagined.
The place was rammed with people. In the narrow streets, it was alarming to be jostled and pushed about by so many — but over his growing irritation, Baldwin was aware of a savage joy. He was near to where Jesus Himself was born. That was a wonderful thought.
Baldwin suddenly found his way blocked by a man in a cream-coloured cloak, wearing a white linen coif. Clearing his throat impatiently, Baldwin frowned at the delay. The man turned with an enquiring expression.
‘My apologies, my friend,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Was I hampering your advance?’
Baldwin took in the red couped cross at his breast and bowed apologetically. The man had a greying beard that reached down to his chest, and that, along with the red cross, the white robes, and the sword, marked him out as a Templar.
‘No, sir knight, I should apologise. I had no idea you were a Templar.’
‘Me?’ The man’s eyes crinkled with amusement. ‘No, I’m no Templar. Though I try to do my part. You are new to the city?’
‘I have just arrived. I am here to join with the crusade.’
‘Then you are doubly welcome. My name is Sir Jacques d’Ivry.’
Baldwin introduced himself, studying the man with interest. Templars were the only Order who tended to grow beards, he knew, while also shaving their heads. It was a sign of their rejection of secular life. This man had hair, he could see — but perhaps here in the Holy Land men would emulate priests and only shave their tonsure? Still, this knight had a gentle, kindly look in his blue eyes, like the vicar at Exeter’s sanctuary who had blessed him and sent him on this journey.
‘It is an easy mistake. I am a Knight of the Order of Saint Lazarus.’
Baldwin felt a shiver at his spine on hearing that: a Leper Knight.
He had always borne a horror of that foul disease. It was a sign of God’s rejection, many said, and the victim must be uniquely foul to deserve such a mark.
Sir Jacques did not notice his revulsion. ‘I joined the Order from an ambition to serve, and what better Order in which to protect the needy and defenceless? But many of my Order join us from the Templars, which is why our symbol is so similar to theirs. When a Templar learns he has leprosy, he will come to our house, and his service continues.’
He broke off. A man was proffering fruit from a bowl, and he took an orange with gratitude, bowing to the man and thanking him in a language strange to Baldwin’s ears.
‘What was that you spoke?’
‘Arabic, my friend,’ the knight said. He had a small eating knife in his hand and he cut the orange twice about the middle, so that the flesh came away like four petals of a flower. He left the skin attached to the orange, and studied it with a satisfied smile, replacing his knife in a sheath hidden under his tunic. ‘So, you are new here?’
‘I was told to find the cathedral.’
‘It is up that road, then turn left and keep going. You are rather out of your way.’
‘I am grateful.’
‘It is my pleasure to be of service, my friend. I hope we shall meet again.’ He pressed the orange upon Baldwin, ignoring his protestations that he could not accept it, until Baldwin took it with as good a grace as he could manage.
‘Go with God, my friend. May He guide and guard you.’ Sir Jacques looked over Baldwin at the market behind. ‘May He guard us all,’ he added quietly.
CHAPTER FIVE
Baldwin strolled in the direction Sir Jacques had indicated, eating the orange with delight. It was a rare treat for him at home, and oranges were never this sweet and juicy. As he walked, he wondered whether he was following the same paths his father had taken when he had come here.
He had often heard the story from his father’s lips. Twenty years ago, he had joined the young Prince Edward and sailed here. Prince Edward had hoped to stimulate a renewed fight to win back territories overrun by the Saracens, and could have succeeded, had he brought more men with him. But with the tiny force at his command, it was impossible.
Since his departure, as Ivo had said, the Saracens had rolled back the Christians from their borders. The Hospitallers had been forced from their great fortresses at Marqab and Krak des Chevaliers, and the Teutonic Knights had lost their castle at Montfort. Now the only protection for the cities of Outremer was the ring of castles owned by the Knights Templar. This was why so many Christians from all over the world were coming here, to Acre, just like Baldwin, in order to help the people protect their city, because the dread ruler of Egypt was threatening to overrun this last enclave.
Baldwin walked past yellow stone houses. The people here wore flowing black or white robes, with strange headgear, and their dark faces had intense brown eyes that watched him without speaking, as though he was a foreigner and had no right to be here. Never before had he felt so alien, and to be here unarmed was doubly alarming.
In the alleys were buttresses with arches beneath them for men to walk along, and irregular buildings that projected into alleys, all constructed of this golden stone. To have the money and labour to set about creating a city of stone was astonishing. He knew of some buildings — castles, cathedrals, abbeys — which depended upon such materials, but not an entire city. Here even peasants must live safe behind stone.
He kept on, marvelling, until he reached a dead end, and there he stood, gazing back the way he had come. Down there, between the buildings of the twisted lane, he could see the sun glinting off the sea, and he was compelled to stand admiringly, filled with serenity, it looked so lovely. On his way back down the hill, he stopped, wondering which road might take him to the cathedral. His sense of direction, usually acute, was failing him. Surely the cathedral must be to his right, if the sea was before him?
Hearing a door slam, he saw a woman appear in the lane, and he called to her. She ignored him, so he hurried after her. When he was a matter of yards from her, she threw him an anxious look. She was tall — and slim, he thought, under flowing emerald robes — but beyond that he could see little of her. Her face was veiled, her hair hidden in a hood, but her eyes were visible. Beautiful, they were: green, and outlined in kohl.
‘Mistress, I wondered if you could help me?’ he began.
To his astonishment, she picked up her skirts and pelted away. Ach! There was no point in chasing her. She was fleet of foot, and he was not, after his injury. His head was pounding with pain and the heat. In any case, with the luck that had dogged him since leaving Italy, she would be unlikely to speak his language.
He stared about him dejectedly. These alleys all looked the same. After a moment’s reflection, he decided that his initial thought must have been correct. The cathedral must lie to the west. He set off down the hill.
At a crossroads he turned right, hoping that the higher ground that appeared to lie this way signalled the location of the cathedral. The alley narrowed, and then he saw that up ahead it broadened into a wider thoroughfare. Yes, it definitely had the appearance of a less intimidating, less foreign area, and he was relieved as he walked on, until he entered a square and gazed about him.
At the northern edge there was a huddle of men about a table, drinking and laughing, and he gave a sigh of relief, for none looked like Saracens. Most were sailors. He walked towards them with hope bursting in his breast that he could soon be out of here and safely at the cathedral, but then his steps faltered.